


Craving (I Only Want What I Can't Have)

by spirograph



Category: Real Person Fiction, Westlife
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-19
Updated: 2009-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirograph/pseuds/spirograph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kian’s shoulders feel like lead and he can’t bring himself to tear his gaze away from the basket weave of his chair, the intricate dotted patterning on the rug beneath his feet. He wishes he’d thought before acting; he’s always been the sensible one. But that was before; before failed marketing ploys and crap records and <i>photocopiers</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Craving (I Only Want What I Can't Have)

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Gomenasai (sorry)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/343721). 
> 
> For Tarz, because we'll always have Westlife.

In the end they postpone the Australian tour, but Kian goes there in late September anyway. He’s standing outside Brian’s mammoth mansion gate before he really thinks about what he’s doing, and it occurs to him later that he should have called, that he should have given the guy some warning at least. His finger presses down on the speakerphone buzzer and he never hesitates; for all the pro’s and the con’s he never stops and really wonders _why_. He speaks, softly, and the gate swings open. He’s partway up the driveway before he bothers to look forward, up and away from the way his shoes make shadows on the concrete. He stops, hands in pockets, and he has to squint to make out Brian’s figure looming on the front steps, mirror image of his own body language, waiting for an outcome Kian’s not so sure that he’s prepared for. 

Up close, Brian’s wearing daggy sweatpants and an unreadable expression. He says: “you got the postcard, then?” in place of any real greeting, opening the door and waving Kian through. The house is predictably enormous; Brian was never the kind of guy who ever did anything half-assed. But all the tiebacks on the drapes are golden and tasseled, the pictures on the walls framed in antique gold; Kian knows what Brian likes, and a vomitous amount of gold coating every fixture in sight sure isn’t it. 

A housekeeper serves them tea in the sunroom. Their monotonous conversation is kept short, succinct, but the atmosphere is ripe with tension that helpfully fills in for the words left unsaid. Kian’s shoulders feel like lead and he can’t bring himself to tear his gaze away from the basket weave of his chair, the intricate dotted patterning on the rug beneath his feet. He wishes he’d thought before acting; he’s always been the sensible one. But that was before; before failed marketing ploys and crap records and _photocopiers._ That was before long sleepless nights spent staring at ceilings and out of windows, watching through slatted blinds for any sign of darkness crossing the lamplight, for the familiar shape of a shadow that was never coming back. “Delta isn’t home,” Brian says, eventually, and Kian realizes how obvious the immediate loosening of his shoulder muscles must be, the way he can breathe again and finally look Brian in the eye. 

The overhead clouds begin to gray, the sunlight fades. Brian says “I suppose you want the grand tour?” like it’s the most boring thing he can imagine. Kian really doesn’t, but forces a smile, nods his head and gets up anyway. They walk through hallways and rooms decked out with extravagant furniture; photograph after photograph of Delta’s grinning face hanging from the soft yellow walls. Brian’s running commentary consists mostly of pointless trivia that Kian ignores; he’s walking one step in front, arms swinging as he moves and their hands keep brushing together. 

Brian ends the ‘tour’ with a small study that in light of the rest of the house is comparatively small. Kian crosses the threshold and tenses; there’s a framed picture of the five of them resting on the table near the door. His heart sinks a little, because they’re all so young, arms wrapped around each other and smiling. “That’s the only one I keep out,” Brian says, arms crossed and pointedly looking toward the opposite side of the room. Kian doesn’t need to ask why. 

“I miss you,” Kian whispers, and wonders why the words feel like rocks awkwardly tumbling out of his mouth. The dull click of the door closing barely registers; it’s followed soon after by the clink of the frame falling back onto the desk. Brian’s fingers hurt where they dig into Kian’s arm, pulling him back until he’s slamming against the door. Kian feels himself shatter and Brian kisses him, hard and full on the lips. 

“You shouldn’t have come here alone,” Brian says, pulling back, warm gusts of breath huffing out onto Kian’s cheek. Kian suddenly wants to lay blame for the life that he’s lost, for the unbearable loneliness of it all. But Brian’s already apologized for that, so he says, “You’re getting married,” instead. 

Brian moves away quickly. He opens a wood paneled cabinet nearby and pulls out two glasses, followed by a large bottle of whiskey that he pours generously. Kian doesn’t move, back flush against the hard wood of the door, arms hanging limp at his sides. 

“There will always be something you want but can’t have,” Brian says thoughtfully, handing a glass over to Kian, downing his own in one gulp. He looks down at his shoes, then back up, and as an afterthought motions between them and says, “This is that thing.” 

There is pain, and then there is _pain_. The lines around Kian’s eyes, the dark shadows beneath them, suddenly feel so much worse than they really are and he can feel the distance between them again, as if he’s already back in the UK with Jodi, letting the hours pass by, ignoring how trapped he feels. Getting used to it. The whiskey burns on the way down and his tongue is on fire. Brian pours himself another drink. 

Kian desperately wants to ask _why_ , but years of celebrity have taught him about scandal and that nothing good can ever really come of it. Brian splashes more alcohol into Kian’s glass then puts the rim of the bottle to his own lips and swigs a healthy gulp. Kian remembers this; he can almost hear the laughter echoing in his head from when they used to celebrate, bottles of whatever they’d chosen to over-consume pressed to their chests or held to their lips as they doubled over drunkenly and congratulated one another on being the best thing in the whole world. This isn’t a celebration, Kian thinks sadly, just as Brian puts the bottle aside and grabs him by the wrists to pull him forward, his glass tumbling to the floor. “Just once,” Brian exhales onto Kian’s nose. His breath smells bitterly of alcohol and Kian doesn’t know what to do, awkwardly bracing himself against Brian’s shoulders, trying to find his footing. 

He wonders if Brian actually believes that years of this unrequited thing they have will just go away if they do this _once_ (although technically, this is the second time, but he keeps that to himself). He wishes that that part of him, the sensible, level-headed guy from years ago, would take hold and steer him away from this, a situation that will ultimately end badly. 

He protests, weakly, as Brian's lips press against his again, soft and warm and wet, begging for him to take it further. And he does, because when it comes to Brian, Kian’s never really had any sense of self control. The sofa isn’t as yielding as it looks, his knees hitting hardness instead of padding when he pushes Brian down on top of it. Kian huffs in surprise and Brian has the audacity to laugh. He’s so goddamn arrogant, and Kian desperately wants to pull away and tell him to shut up, just _shut the fuck up_ and stop doing this to him. Instead he leans down and grinning, presses kisses all over Brian’s cheeks. It feels less urgent than the first time, but no less wrong; Kian’s heart stutters at every sound he hears outside, every creak of wood and swish of curtains in the wind. He sucks Brian’s earlobe into his mouth, bites down gently and savors the way Brian gasps, his breathy moans sending shockwaves of pleasure all over Kian’s body. He bucks forward, suddenly too hot, wearing far too many clothes. Brian laughs again, fingers tugging at the hem of Kian’s shirt, pulling it over his head before awkwardly pulling off his own. 

Fingertips dig into Kian’s hips, pulling him close and even closer still, until they’re pressed so near that Kian feels like they might fuse, become stuck this way forever. He buries his face against Brian’s neck, breathes in the smell of him, sweet and musky and so goddamn familiar that it hurts. He tries to concentrate, becoming lost in the feel of Brian’s thigh between his legs, the frustratingly perfect rhythm as they push and pull against each other. Kian’s harder than he’s ever been in his whole _life_ , and already he doesn’t think he’ll last much longer if they keep this up.

“I want,” Brian says, voice loud against Kian’s ear, his hands moving down, palming the curve of Kian’s ass. And yeah, Kian’s thought about it, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t; the slow burn and fullness of having Brian inside him. But here, in this room, the logistics of the whole thing are suddenly completely perplexing. Brian grabs him by the shoulders, pushes him up. _Sneaky_ , Kian wants to say, but all he can do is stare wide-eyed as Brian’s fingers move deftly over his belt, unfastening his jeans in a rapid blur of motion. He’s almost horrified by the way his own cock peeks out of his briefs, hard and red and god, Brian swipes his thumb over the tip and Kian could probably die right now and be completely okay with it. The noises pouring from his mouth are obscene but he can’t seem to make himself care. 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Brian breathes, hips pressing forward so he can grind his dick against Kian’s ass. Kian’s not really sure how they’re going to get from here to pantsless with any kind of grace and maybe he should say something, but Brian tightens his grip on Kian’s cock and the sudden hotwet sensation created by his own pre-come renders his brain practically useless. 

He’s close already, so damn close. Kian shuts his eyes tightly, tries thinking of anything but the way Brian’s fingers feel on his skin, the way he runs his palm up and down over Kian’s chest, over his hip. He wants to commit every sensation to memory, he wants to catalogue it all in perfect detail to remember later but “I’m close,” he manages, trying to resist the urge to surge forward into Brian’s hand. 

“Wait,” Brian says, removing his hands completely, scrambling out from underneath Kian’s body so he can stand and shuck his pants. He grabs Kian’s jeans, too, yanks at them and tosses them aside along with his underwear. Kian kneels up, doesn’t think he’s ever felt more exposed, unable to stop himself from grasping onto his cock and biting down on his lip to keep from being too loud as he fucks his fist. 

Brian hesitates, just stands there and watches him like he’s not really sure what to do next. It’s almost as if his brain is gradually catching up with the scene unfolding because his expression changes, suddenly, and he moves back onto the couch, grabbing Kian’s legs and pulling him down so he’s prone. Brian settles between Kian’s thighs, leans down and captures Kian’s mouth in an indelicate kiss that leaves them both gasping. Brian groans, and he sounds broken, like maybe he feels the way that Kian does: packed full of so much desire that his blood is ablaze, burning like he might spontaneously combust at any moment. Kian reaches for Brian’s cock, tentatively wraps his hand around it, marvels in the sound Brian makes, how low and desperate it is. 

Brian licks a path from Kian’s collarbone to his ear, places sloppy kisses against his jaw; Kian awkwardly wraps his legs around Brian’s thighs, pulling him down until their cocks align. They kiss, moaning into each others mouths until Kian's so dizzy he isn’t sure of anything but the dull thumping of his heartbeat, the damp huff of breath against his neck. 

It’s the sound of Brian’s rasping sigh as he comes that sends Kian over the edge. Before he can stop himself he’s coming too, breathless and clinging onto Brian’s shoulders, riding out the slick sensation of Brian’s cock sliding against his own. 

In the quiet that follows, Kian is acutely aware of Brian’s ragged breaths, the tender press of his lips over the hammering pulse point of Kian's neck. His body trembles, thrumming with aftershocks. 

Brian pulls back slightly,whispers, “Delta will be home soon,” and it slices through Kian more painfully than he is likely to ever admit. He wants to disappear, wants the stupid too-hard couch beneath him to just swallow him up. And he’s suddenly angry, more at himself than anything else, because _of course_ Delta will be home soon, he’s not sure how he succeeded in forgetting about her. “I’m so sorry,” Brian continues, like he can read Kian’s mind, and he sighs, moving the wonderful heat of his body away. Brian opens another wood paneled cupboard nearby and pulls out a towel, throwing it in Kian’s general direction. 

Kian would probably yell if he thought it would help, but history has taught him otherwise. He wipes away the quickly drying patch of come on his stomach instead, and wonders if Brian will feel guilty. If he’ll come clean and tell Delta or if he’ll just put it all in a song and ambiguously tell the entire world about it. 

They pull on their clothes in silence, outsite it is raining and somewhere a door slams. In the distance, Kian can hear laughter, high-pitched and happy. 

Brian catches his wrist when he moves to open the door, to let himself out and run the hell away. Kian doesn’t want to turn around, he doesn’t think he has the energy left to do this, to say goodbye all over again. But Brian doesn’t say anything, just reaches up, holds his palm flat against Kian’s jaw and swipes his thumb over the swell of his cheek, eyes glassy and unfocussed like he's trying to remember. Kian shuts his eyes against it and wills himself to let it go, to pretend this isn’t something he desperately needs. 

“I want you there,” Brian says gently, “at the wedding.” Kian eyes snap open, and he wonders if somehow Brian has already managed to forget about what just happened; Kian can still feel the stickiness of their mingled come on his skin. Kian nods, and hates himself for feeling so dejected, for thinking that maybe he could have changed Brian’s mind. Brian grins, though, ear to ear like Kian’s just granted him some kind of magic wish and against his better judgment, he feels his lips curve into a smile.

Brian says, “I’ll see you soon,” but not goodbye, and Kian moves away quickly, through pale yellow and hideous gold, moving as fast as he possibly can to escape before he’s captured by Delta’s over-white grinning teeth and sparkling eyes. The rain outside is pelting, bombarding him as he jogs toward the gate. He tells himself it’s easier this way; that it’s different this time because he’s the one that’s leaving. Kian’s always been pretty good at lying, especially to himself. 

At the gate he thinks he hears Brian’s laughter, a rumbling sound like thunder that echoes all around him, makes his already heaving lungs feel winded. The latch on the gate complains under his hands, the hinges groan. Kian is thankful for the rain, he is glad for the way the trees around him splinter and snap as they sway in the wind; for the way they perfectly disguise the sound his heart is making as he walks away from Brian’s house, the slow crack, crack, crack as it splits down the centre and then breaks apart entirely.


End file.
